And Now, Back To The… Office
by S. Faith
Summary: A British journalist comes to Scranton PA to do a story, bringing her own special brand of drama along for the ride. Book universe; crossover with The Office US.


And Now, Back To The… Office  
By S. Faith © 2006-2007

Written for the LJ community Dundercross: "The Office" meets "Bridget Jones's Diary".

Words: 8,014  
Rating: T  
Summary: A British journalist comes to Scranton to do a story, bringing her own special brand of drama along for the ride.  
Featuring: Bridget, Mark, Pam, Jim and some Dwight  
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I wish I did, because then I'd be a millionaire.  
Note: For timeline: For "The Office", I decided to go with a not-too-distant-future (la la la) scenario, sometime after "The Traveling Salesman" (season 3, episode 13), diverging from canon. (It's probably late February or early March, at the very latest.) For "BJD": for an extra challenge, we're going book-universe, sometime after the close of the second book ("Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason"—there are some spoilers, if you have not yet read the book). Since I can't think of a passage in the books that actually describe what Mark and Bridget look like, I'm still envisioning Colin Firth and Reneé Zellweger, respectively.  
NB: I have nothing against small-town Pennsylvania and environs. I am merely channeling Bridget.

* * *

**Sunday.**

_Weight: 133 lbs (panic stations—air travel has made body swell to size of Boeing 787). Alcohol units: 10 (all on flight). Cigarettes: 14 (all post-flight—in taxi to, and standing in front of, hotel). Calories: 5,000,000 (approx.), all from airport fast food._

_11:30 pm UK time._

Have landed in middle of bloody nowhere, or so it seems. Is too, too quiet without constant wail of police sirens, car alarms going off, trains running by window, etc. Have always thought would be nice to live in serene, peaceful place but now know the truth of it: would go stark raving mad.

Still annoyed at Mark Darcy. Cannot believe he actually wanted me to turn down assignment. Is step in right direction—up!—for career. Will never move past fox-murderer sabotage / horse-riding debacle (even if only in own head) if never take the big, serious news-type assignments. Sure, it is all right for him to take (or think about taking) cases in L.A., Thailand or similar, but not okay for me to come to wasteland-type place to do story in part on US paper company? Secretly think he likes having girlfriend slightly below him on social scale, in manner of king shagging scullery wench mistress.

Or, hm, maybe he thinks cannot cut it in world of serious journalism. Perhaps only says nice things about work because is king wanting shag. And though true story is not same level of serious as freedom fighters in Africa or death squads in Mexico, at least is not about Sixties Guy Fawkes Bobbitt Boy.

Need fag to get self out of thought bog.

_11:50 pm UK time. (Really must find clock to reset watch.)_

Gah! Am out of Silk Cut! Thought packed more than two packets into bag. Must explore. America is the land of commerce and trade. Surely the market on the corner carries them.

_9:05 pm US time._

Not only no Silk Cut, but they have never even _heard_ of Milk Tray, and when I asked the hotel about chocolate croissant for breakfast I might as well have been asking for curried monkey brains. Trip is already stinking disaster, though dinner of grilled chicken sandwich not bad. Have had to settle for a packet of strange off-brand that tastes like arse. May quit smoking simply due to lack of fags.

Oh. Found time on clock on wall at market, though did not understand comment about clock still being set to "fall back". Perhaps nail on wall not secure?

………

**Monday.**

_Weight: 129 lbs (excess has been lost like proverbial airline luggage). Alcohol units: 2 (am perfect saint-style person). Cigarettes: 5 (v. bad cigsv. good for self). Calories: number too large to contemplate, but does not matter when in foreign country._

_8:30 am._

Gah! Hotel has phoned in wakeup call one hour later than requested and now will be late on first day of serious journalism. Fuck! No time for coffee. No time for breakfast! DOOOOOM!

_8:55 am._

Made it. Luckily, limited selection of clothing prohibited true wardrobe panic. Have chosen safe top and skirt for first impressions. And office building was fortunately just down the street from hotel. Hurrah!

_9:15 am._

Hm. Surely is not right for everyone to be so late. Did perhaps boss not tell office of visit?

_9:30 am._

_Definitely_ not right for everyone to be so late. Unless lateness phenomenon is not limited to UK and everyone will show up momentarily pretending they've been here since 9.

_9:40 am._

Feel butt of universe's joke. Feel as if have been stood up by entire office. Bastards!

………

There's a saying Jim's mom likes to use a lot: _steal a march on the day_. He's never been quite sure what it means except that she made everyone in the house wake up at an ungodly early hour, even on weekends. As much as he tries to deprogram that habit out of himself, Jim is still a—he shudders even now to think it—morning person.

Jim has a niggling thought in the back of his head that he has forgotten something, and it continues as he drives into work, gets his latte (fortification for a Monday, which he finishes even before he arrives at the office), and parks his car in the Dunder-Mifflin parking lot. He's not sure why he's always there so early. It isn't as if he wants to be there, or he has work to catch up on. He supposes it is just easier to already be working at his desk when Pam comes in, because things are still a bit off with her. Jim's not with Karen anymore, not that he ever really was _with_ her, because it was certainly no long term thing: a few dates, slightly fewer nights spent together, and then she moved into a place close to him. He never stopped loving Pam, though; Karen was kind enough to pretend she didn't realize there was someone else occupying his thoughts and heart. When Phyllis spilled the beans that the 'someone else' was Pam, he thought she took it like a champ.

Then took a job in New York City.

It isn't until the doors part on the elevator, he exits, takes a few steps down the hall and sees a woman sitting just outside the office doors that he has a glimmer of a remembrance of the thing he'd forgotten: something is going on in the office today. Maybe it's part of the week; maybe even all week. Frankly, he hadn't been paying much attention on Friday when Michael was talking. He rarely does.

She looks up at him, then stands as he approaches. She's young (he guesses not much older than he is), with blue eyes, shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and a really friendly, roundish, open face. Well, friendly when she doesn't look totally pissed off, he supposes.

"What time does this office open, anyway?" she asks, her voice laden with irritation and (to Jim's surprise) an English accent.

Jim looks to his watch nonchalantly. "In about fifteen minutes. At nine. Like most offices."

She pushes an impatient breath between her teeth, tugging up her own sleeve and looking at her own watch in a slightly ridiculous, exaggerated gesture. "But it's _already_ well after nine—" At that point, he points his watch at her for her to see, and she ever so slightly deflates when she sees her watch is set an hour ahead of his. "—Ohhhh, _bollocks_. My watch has the wrong time." After a moment during which she must have expected him to say something, she adds, "I'm here from England. Where I live."

With a nod, Jim says thoughtfully, "_That_ explains why I never noticed you squatting in the hall before. And here I thought I was just really unobservant." He reaches for his keys, then glances back to her with a smirk in the hope of breaking her sour mood. It works, and she pulls her lips into an understated, apologetic smile. He was right about her face when she's not pissed off.

"I'm really sorry," she says with a sigh. "Nothing has gone right this trip. I had a huge row—" (she says it to rhyme with 'pow', not 'sew') "—with my boyfriend before I got on the plane, then I couldn't sleep, ran out of ciggies, haven't had _any_ coffee yet this morning…"

"Wow," he replies, trying his best to look impressed. "'Bollocks' and 'row' in less than five minutes of conversation: you really _are_ English." He grins, then holds out his right hand. "I'm Jim Halpert."

She takes it, shakes it. "Bridget Jones."

"Come on in, I'll make some coffee." He puts his key in the door, flips the door lock open, and gestures for her to enter ahead of him. She sets her oversized handbag and coat on the couch just inside the door as he re-locks it. He drops his messenger bag and suit jacket off at his own desk, then invites her to join him in the break room. He puts together a pot of coffee while she sits at a table. "So, I'm guessing the real reason you're here has nothing to do with taking up residence in the hallway. Who're you here to see this morning?"

She makes a confused face. "Well, I'm here for everyone, really."

Jim feels his eyebrows raise of their own accord. If there were a camera present he would have been helpless to shoot it a smartass look. If Michael were present he would have undoubtedly blurted out 'that's what _she_ said'.

Jim asks, "Everyone?"

"Didn't Mr. Scott tell you what was happening?"

This, Jim realizes, is probably the thing Michael told them about on Friday. Play it smooth, Halpert. "He was a little vague about the details. When you meet Michael, you'll see what I mean."

"'Michael'. Hm. Very interesting." She must realize he has no idea what she means so she explains, "I'm here doing a bit of research for a lead story on the changing face of small business and office dynamics in the European and North American markets."

"Oh, so you're a journalist?"

She smiles, seems pleased, like she's flattered he would think such a thing. "Well—" She draws out the word to sustain the illusion, he realizes afterwards. "Not strictly speaking, no. I work as a consultant for a current events show back home."

"Television? Cool."

She smiled, apparently even more flattered. "They've got other people doing their bits on other companies in France, Italy, Sweden; that sort of thing. I've already talked to another paper company back home to compare with yours. I'm here for a couple of days minimum, and I've got one more stop in, gah, I forget. I think it's Toronto."

"Ooh. Great city."

She continues, "And since you already have a camera crew here, we've arranged to have them do filming."

"They aren't really our crew, you know. Dunder-Mifflin doesn't film us. Hm. On second thought, maybe they do. That might explain the comment in my personnel file." He grins, and so does she.

"Confidentially—" she says, lowering her voice as if someone else were present to overhear, "—the story will probably get dropped, but it gives me a chance to do something a little more serious than geriatric skydiving and beer-drinking snails. Plus it got me a free trip to America and Canada."

Way to work the system. He gives her a thumbs up. He wonders silently about the snails, but decides not to ask.

The coffee pot gurgles, telling him it's through with the brew cycle. He stands again and, like a good host, offers to pour her a cup. He finds one of Angela's extra mugs—a cartoon drawing of an annoyed cat's face with I _AM_ SMILING written beneath—and fills it with the weak-as-piss coffee Michael insists they drink (his own 'special blend' of Colombian and Folgers, one that he is unaccountably proud of).

"Unfortunately, Bridget, for doctoring your coffee, we only have the staple of the American workplace break room: powdered non-dairy creamer and packs of sugar dating from some time in the seventies." He holds up his hand to each of the supplies in turn on the counter it as if he were a QVC presenter. "I could probably dig up a Sweet 'N Low from the back of a filing cabinet if you need the fake stuff. And for stirring your premium beverage, we have a choice of ineffectual mini-straws, or paper-thin strips of balsa wood."

She laughs. It's infectious and makes him smile, too. He realizes he's been showing off a bit. He's reminded of a line in _L.A Story_, about how showing off is the idiot's version of being interesting, but it's been a while since he had such light, fun banter with a woman. Karen's been gone for weeks and Pam—well, she had been treating him only slightly better than she treated Dwight in the post-Karen-split fallout, and things were only just starting to look up again.

He hears another key in the front door. Speak of the devil.

………

Voices. She could swear she heard voices, plural. They stop after the key clicks in the door. Pam sets her things down at her desk, noting a purse and a winter coat on the couch that definitely wasn't there when she left on Friday. Before she flips the lights on she notices the break room is already illuminated, and the aroma of coffee a la Michael Scott is already as heavy as it can be in the air. Curious, she walks to the break room and sees Jim with a pretty blonde woman dressed in a black top and an orange miniskirt. Date from last night? Her mind flashes to Angela's opinion of the colour, a status once held by green: whorish. _Be nice_, she tells herself.

"Hey," Jim says. The problem with knowing someone as well as she knows Jim, she thinks, is that there are a hundred shades of nuance in even the simplest utterances. To her it seems to be tentative, with an air of forced joviality. She'd disliked being back on barely-speaking terms with Jim, but she'd really come to like Karen and hated how Jim had hurt her by not telling her how he'd felt about Pam. Recently things were just beginning to defrost between them. At least she thought so.

"Hey," Pam replies neutrally.

Their eyes meet and seemingly begin a conversation of their own before Jim looks abruptly away and says to the woman sitting beside him, holding his hand out towards Pam, "This is Pam. She's our receptionist and pretty much the glue that holds this place together." The woman's blue eyes flash to Pam and a strange expression crosses her countenance, something almost like recognition, but obviously isn't. "Pam, this is Bridget. She's here from London, researching a story."

Suddenly Pam remembers the guest Michael said they'd have for the next few days, from England of all places. "Oh, yeah. God, I'm really sorry. I meant to get some good tea to make you feel at home, like Tetley or something." Pam holds out her hand. "Nice to meet you."

Their visitor smiles, though it looks a little forced, and shakes Pam's proffered hand. "The coffee Jim's made is doing the job, but thanks anyway. Though honestly, I'd murder for a chocolate croissant."

"Sorry," offers Jim. "The selection in the vending machine is pretty limited."

"The cameras should be here just about any time. So will Michael," Pam adds darkly, turning her eyes to meet Jim's, and for just a moment they're back to being a team united in fighting the forces of idiocy collectively personified as Michael Scott.

"Yeah." Jim turns back to Bridget, breaking the connection. "So you can bring your stuff over to the conference room, or wherever you'd feel more comfortable." They both rise at the same time from the table.

"Wherever you think is best, really."

"Who do you think you'll talk to first?" blurts out Pam.

Bridget pushes an errant lock of hair back behind her ear. "I'm not sure yet. I think I'd like to meet everyone first, you know, get a feel for the dynamics here. Though, obviously, Mr. Scott and Jim here are quite high on the list." She turns her eyes to Jim and looks to him with something not unlike admiration.

"Oh." For a horrifying moment she feels like the kid at school that the cool kids are shunning. It's irrational and she pushes it down.

As Jim leads Bridget towards the door, his eyes meet Pam's for a split second, then dart away. He smiles a sort of polite smile as they pass by and out of the break room.

Drawing in a breath, Pam returns to her desk, thinking that it was going to be a long, long day—week?—of one step forward, two steps back.

………

_10:45am. Dunder-Mifflin conference room._

Morning v.v. exhausting. After arriving far too early at office (watch set one hour too fast—gah, so much for professionalism), met Mr. Scott (Michael, as he did not hesitate to remind me), manager of this branch of the company. He was v. pleasant and kind until the cameras showed up and the lights went on, and then literally, before my eyes, he became a performing seal, trying moment by moment to entertain anyone in earshot with anything he could think of to garner attention, including, but not limited to, lewd jokes and off-colour comments that would have made even Richard Finch go pale. Ugh. Can only speculate he actually knows what he's doing re: being a manager, business, etc. on a more regular basis without crew. Despite it all, did get what I hope will be some useful footage, but think will have to get creative in the editing room.

_11:00 am._

Met accounting staff: a tight-lipped, haughty blonde woman called Angela, a sniggering twelve year old (practically) perv called Kevin who kept blatantly staring at my breasts, and nice, polite Mexican-Peruvian-or-similar man called Oscar—let's just say years of hanging out with self-proclaimed hag fag Tom have made me almost sixth-sense-ish about some things. Think will interview Oscar for story, as he is friendly, eloquent, and I feel we have instant bond, being long-time friend of homosexual (me) and actual homosexual (him). However, do not think idea will be well-received by blonde ice maiden-type who seems to be in charge of everything (or at least thinks she is).

Assistant manager of the office, Jim, is v. nice, sweet, beacon-of-sanity-type person. Felt immediate connection after he brought me in following embarrassing early-arrival-fiasco and made me coffee. He left during Michael Scott interview hell and when we were finished I found he had gone out and brought me back what the local bakery referred to as a chocolate croissant. Not quite the same as Coins', but heavenly. Best thing about trip so far.

Caught tail end of stare of doom from receptionist Pam, though. Felt like the witch in the Whistles suit must have felt when I ran into Jeremy having dinner with her (and not with his wife Magda)—as if I'd been caught doing something wrong, except I haven't. V. weird, almost is as if jealous. Hm.

_11:05 am._

Just met, in manner of speaking, v. strange person with spectacles and freakishly large forehead. He keeps giving me menacing looks, or, I should say, started giving me menacing looks when he found out I was from London. Creepy.

_11:10 am._

After encounter with office flake, told Kevin (only person at desk at moment) was going out for fag. Must remember in future not to call ciggies 'fags' in front of Kevin.

………

Jim sighs. "Dwight. She _isn't_."

Dwight fixes him with an unblinking, focused gaze, then turns his eyes back to their English guest and speaks quietly. "You don't know that. And you don't know what I know. The internet is world-wide."

"She's a journalist."

"That doesn't also mean she's not from the Dark Side," he says portentously. Dwight's little sabbatical from Dunder-Mifflin hasn't changed him a bit; in face, it seems to have made him more paranoid. After Andy's backstabbing, though, Jim could hardly blame him.

"Dwight, you're insane. And it's just a movie."

Dwight looks back to Jim, a patient yet patronizing look penetrating his features. "I am not talking about the movie."

"Well, okay, that clears things up."

Jim decides to leave well enough alone.

………

_11:30 am._

Back from front of office building (smoking is banned everywhere in America, it seems, making one feel even more like pariah or leper) and am suddenly ravenous. Body still confused about time of day. It wants dinner, wine and telly-watching when is only just barely lunchtime.

Oooh. Jim has just asked me to come to lunch with him at noon to a place called Chili's. Have not been to Chili's in Docklands as Jude went once and did not like it, but imagine has full range of American-style food. V. v. nice person. Proves there is more than one nice adult male in world.

_11:35 am._

God, I miss Mark, despite king/wench scenario looping in head like broken record.

_11:40 am._

Wish v. much Mark would ring. Though do not know where he would ring to, come to think of it, as mobile does not work in the US and was so annoyed with Mark implying I am not fit to travel abroad un-chaperoned that I did not think to give him contact info while here.

Bugger. Hate when he is right.

………

Jim just didn't hear her.

Pam looks to her desk as the door closes behind Jim and Bridget, and Pam tells herself that he must not have heard her ask when they'd be back. But he was telling Bridget a story about Stamford, about putting Andy's stuff in Jell-O and Andy's over-the-top reaction, and she could tell Bridget was hanging on his every word and laughing. And then they were out the door.

Jim tells a good story—there's no denying it. But Pam remembers when she was the girl he'd tell stories to, and that makes her sad.

She doesn't have much time to think about it, because she hasn't switched the phone to forward to voice mail for lunch, and it rings. She sighs. Great.

"Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam." She says it almost as one continuous word, forgetting everything Michael has ever taught her about a smile reflecting in her voice when she speaks.

There is silence before a man's voice says, "Pardon?"

She furrows her brow. It's only one word and he sounds really distant like it's a bad connection, but she can hear a certain level of distinction in his voice. She repeats herself.

"Ah," he says. "I'm look—" The line breaks up. "—Bridget Jones. Is she there? Have I reached the right place?"

"The British girl?" Pam asks stupidly. Her mind conjures images of Pierce Brosnan, Patrick Stewart, Alan Rickman, his voice is that nice.

He laughs, though it does seem weary. "Yes."

"She's not in the office right now. She went to lunch with the assistant manager," she says, a little stab going through her heart. "May I take a message?"

"Yes. Tell her—" It breaks up again and she can only hear parts of words she guesses are "mark", "miss", "call" and "work" before the line comes back up and he finishes, "—I'll call again later."

"Ohhhhkay," Pam says, and before she has a chance to ask him to repeat himself to jot down the message, the call disconnects.

She is eating her lunch in the break room alone, thinking that when Karen was around they'd at least eat together, when Dwight comes in. She smiles, because Dwight, though a little on the odd side, is at least a benign sort of odd. "What do you know about that British chick?" he asks in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

"Not much," Pam admits. "She was here when I got here, having coffee with Jim."

Dwight's eyebrow raises. "Really?" he asks in a lilting voice, drawing out the 'e' longer than strictly necessary, telling Pam she's given him a nugget of useful information. She has no idea how it's useful, or why, but clearly it is.

"Why do you ask?" Pam inquires before sipping up the last of her grape soda.

"A little reconnaissance, that's all," he says with an evil little smirk before leaving.

_Benign odd_, Pam reminds herself before her thoughts turn back to the voice on the phone, then to thoughts of what he might look like. Of course, the voice is no guarantee of good looks, but she smiles a small smile, happy to be left to her imagination, and grateful for the distraction.

………

_12:45pm._

Chili's v. g. place. Margarita with lunch!

Jim v. easy to talk to—had v. good time. Was v. patient listening to me talk about Mark, and he told me he'd just broken up pretty recently with his girlfriend. Felt instinctively he wanted to tell me more but held back.

Glad to have come to do story when I did and not sooner, as had horror stories of former office psycho/suck-up Andy regaled upon me. Asked about large-headed weirdo—named Dwight, apparently—and Jim tells me Dwight thinks I am someone he thinks he knows from the internet, but can't offer anything else more than that.

"You're not into _Star Wars_, are you?" he asked me with a wary eye, but a smirk.

"No more than anyone else my age," I told him. "I don't think Yoda's out there training young Jedi, if that's what you're asking." He laughed, evidently appeased.

_1:05 pm._

Back in office now, waiting for Oscar to return from lunch. Another odd moment upon coming back. The receptionist (with a frosty sort of look and tone) told me that someone called for me whilst I was out, but could provide no concrete details aside from "he had a nice voice and an accent," that he mentioned work, and that he'd call back. Bad connection that kept cutting out, she told me. Could have been Richard Finch for all I know—to me he sounds like nails on a chalkboard when he speaks, but have found that American women go absolutely liquid over English accents no matter the voice. Ah well, I'm sure he will call back as promised. Perhaps is sexy Matt with travel arrangements for Toronto, Quebec, or similar.

Realise have been prejudiced from the start against Pam as I would anyone with the same first name as my G-list celebrity mother. It is shallow and wrong to feel this way, as receptionist's mother cannot possibly have named daughter so as to spite me. Resolve to extend olive branch as do not want to be on bad side of glue of office, plus, feel is duty to warn of potential trouble resulting from dipping nib in office ink, of which I am unfortunately an expert.

_2:00 pm._

Oscar interview went well, though was right re: ice-maiden type. Next on agenda is customer service. Someone called Kelly, who apparently never stops to breathe whilst talking and thinks because am British must know Jude Law, David Beckham and similar.

………

"I'll be sure to tell him. Bye."

As she hangs up, Pam looks up to see Bridget standing before her, a slightly stunned look playing upon on the visitor's face. "Are you all right?"

Bridget blinks. "I think so. I feel like I've just been hammered about the head and shoulders."

Pam draws her brows together. "What happened?"

"I just interviewed Kelly." Bridget runs her hand over her face.

"Ah." Pam laughs lightly. "I'm sorry."

"Is she always like that?" asks Bridget quietly.

"Sadly, yes," she says, "but she's nice, and well-meaning." She sips her water.

Bridget picks a jellybean up out of the bowl and eats it. "Jim's nice, too."

Pam very nearly chokes. "Yes, he is." She realizes Bridget said it to gauge a reaction, and wonders why.

Bridget hesitates, seemingly considering her next words. "Are you and he…?" she drifts off.

"No. _No._" Pam shakes her head as if to reiterate the point.

"Ah." She eats another jellybean, then crouches down a little bit, closer to Pam. "Before my current boyfriend, a human rights lawyer, I dated my boss. _Very_ bad idea."

"I'll keep that in mind," she replies, her eyes following Jim back from the men's room. Pam feels relieved—not that she seriously thought something might be going on, but feels relieved all the same. But what would prompt her to say such a thing?

Bridget stands up straight again. "Well. After Kelly, I think I need to go outside for a f—" She shoots a glance in Kevin's direction. "—cigarette. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Okay."

She grabs her coat and heads for the door, but then pauses and turns back. "Want to join me?"

Pam stares for a moment, then smiles, recognizing the gesture for what it is. "I don't smoke, but thanks."

Bridget returns the smile then turns away.

Before Pam forgets, she calls over to Jim, "Hey, Mark just called." In her periphery she can see Bridget spin in place to face the reception desk again. She glances to Bridget with confusion for a moment before continuing: "He asked me to tell you to pick up a case of beer for later."

Not looking up from the phone he's dialing, Jim offers a thumbs-up. Pam smiles, looks back to the door to see Bridget has gone. She wonders briefly what that was about.

………

_3:25 pm._

Back from smoke break. Hopes raised then dashed (re: Mark Darcy) by receptionist giving Jim phone message from friend, roommate or similar.

Time to screw up courage to talk to Dwight, as is apparently top sales person, so really should interview him.

………

Dwight pauses from his research endeavor on his favorite online fan forum to see the interloper has taken a tactically advantageous position behind him, near his desk, notebook and pen poised and ready. He alt-tabs to bring up Excel and it covers most of the browser window but he's afraid she's already seen too much.

"I'm told you're one of the best salesmen here, if not the best," she says.

"Who told you that?" he says. He wonders who her inside person is.

"Jim."

Of course.

She continues, "I was wondering if I might fit you in for an interview tomorrow."

He narrows his eyes. "Why?"

"For my piece on your office…?"

"A likely story." He sits, back folding his arms across his chest. "No."

She stares a minute more before blinking, offering a lame "Okay" then backing away, jotting down something in her notebook.

Dwight smirks smugly. Victory this round.

………

"Hey."

Jim startles Pam out of a game of solitaire. She looks up to meet his eyes. "Hey. How'd your interview go?"

"Official interview not happening until tomorrow morning now. Guess things with Kelly went longer than expected, and now she's interviewing Toby since he has the rest of the week off."

"Ah." She fidgets with a pen, drawing circles on her pad of paper. "And how was lunch?"

Jim pulls his mouth into a thoughtful line. "Pretty good." He glances over to where Toby sits with Bridget, sees they're knee-deep in interview, cameras and all. "She's a bit flaky, but nice. Quite a talker, too, especially with a margarita in her."

Pam laughs. "How is she on the Kelly scale?" she asks, making talking motions with her hands.

"Not even close. Though I did get to hear all about the boyfriend. Big name human rights lawyer type back in Britain, apparently."

"She mentioned," Pam says with a smirk.

He leans his forearms on the edge of her desk, looking suddenly kind of serious. "Say, I was thinking. How would you like—"

Pam's heart leaps into her throat but the phone rings, and she apologetically reaches to answer it with the standard greeting.

"I'm calling for Bridget Jones." It's Mr. Smooth Voice and the connection is much better this time.

"Oh, hello. She's interviewing Human Resources right now. May I take a message?" The pen is poised.

There's a pause. "No. That's all right." He disconnects.

"Have a good day," she says to no one, then hangs up.

Jim looks to her. "Who was that?"

"I have no idea." She clears her throat to keep the hammering of her heart at bay. "So you were saying?"

His eyes dart to the side. "I was thinking maybe we could go—"

"Sorry to interrupt." From out of nowhere, it's Bridget, slipping her notebook back into her purse before depositing it on Pam's desk. "I'm going to leave for the day, go though my notes in the comfort of my hotel room." She smiles wearily, goes to the coat rack and pulls on her overcoat, then gathers her things up again. "See you bright and early."

"Oh, hey," says Pam. "The person who called earlier called back, didn't leave a message."

She screws up her face. "Not even a name?"

Pam shakes her head. "Sorry. I think he thinks I caught it the last time he called and he didn't give me a chance to ask this time."

"Thanks."

Jim stands up. "Do you need a ride?"

"No thanks. It's just down the street."

"Let me walk you out then."

Bridget brightens. "That'd be nice, thank you."

When he comes back, he heads directly for his desk to pick up his ringing phone, leaving Pam to wonder what he might have wanted to ask.

………

_4:30 pm._

Back at hotel. Have ordered dinner; should be here within half hour. After that will probably will take a long, hot shower, watch some telly and sort through the notes I took today. Town not exactly London when it comes to social options.

Think will ring Mark if can figure out how to dial internationally, since he will not know where to ring me. Yes. Will do.

_4:45 pm._

Bugger. Got answerphone. Left message.

………

Everyone's gone for the day except for Jim, and Pam is just setting the phones to forward to voice mail at five to five when she hears the door open. She stands up and there in the doorway is a tall man with short dark hair, dark eyes, a long winter overcoat, and the strap of a garment bag evident on his shoulder. He looks really, really tired, but even so she thinks he's pretty handsome, so handsome in a movie-star sort of way that she's kind of gobsmacked and forgets to speak.

"Hello?" he asks unsurely. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jim's head bob up at the sound of a strange man's voice, realizes he can't see the newcomer from his vantage point.

"Sorry. Hello." She snaps out of it, shaking her head a little, smiling. "May I help you?"

"I hope so. I was looking for Bridget Jones."

She realizes it's Mr. Smooth Voice. Her smile broadens. "Oh, you called earlier, didn't you? I never did get your name. The connection was really bad."

He blinks.

"She's not here," Pam continues. "She left for her hotel."

He runs his hand through his hair, blows out a frustrated breath. "Yes. Of course she did. Don't suppose you know where that might be?"

Jim approaches. "Can I help you?" he asks in the most serious voice he has, like he thinks he's protecting her from this guy.

Pam turns to Jim with a placating-the-lions sort of smile. "He called earlier for Bridget."

"And you are…?" Jim asks in that same tone.

"Mark." He pauses, then adds, "Mark Darcy. I'm Bridget's boyfriend."

Pam feels her eyebrows crawl up on her forehead about as high as Jim's do. Suddenly Bridget's reaction regarding Jim's phone message from his friend and former roommate makes a hell of a lot more sense.

"What are you doing _here_?" Pam asks before she can stop herself.

Thankfully, he chuckles—there's a really nice smile hiding in there—then explains, "You sounded a little bit like Bridget there for a moment."

"She said her hotel was just down the street," offers Jim. "There's only one hotel within walking distance."

"I think I remember passing it in the taxi on the way here." He nods. "Thank you." With that he smiles politely to both of them, then departs.

Pam turns to look at Jim, still struggling to define exactly what happened there. For his part, he is looking pretty studiously back at her.

"Beesly," he says at last, his voice straining for a playful tone, "I think you've got a little drool there in the corner of your mouth."

She smiles to herself as she realizes exactly what his reaction and tone were all about, absently raising her fingers to touch softly at the corner of her mouth. "Halpert, if I didn't know any better I'd think you might be jealous."

"Jealous, me? Ha." She can tell he means it to be full of bravado, machismo, or some other sort of masculine defense mechanism, but he fails miserably.

"If you are, I don't mind," she adds softly; her heart pounds as she engages his eyes with her most serious of looks.

He clears his throat. "Well. As long as you don't mind… I might have been. A little," he adds almost in afterthought.

"Oh. 'A little'." She lifts her chin defiantly, feeling impossibly brave.

"Well," he says again. "I never got to ask you before if you wanted to—"

"Yes," she answers.

He blinks with surprise, then grins. It's his standard, natural grin, and she's beyond thrilled to see it. "You didn't even hear what I was going to ask you."

She shrugs, unable to stop smiling herself. "It doesn't matter."

………

_5:05 pm_.

Have received massive, heart-clogging cheeseburger, bottled diet Pepsi and "French fries" (v. skinny chips) from room service and am stuffing face at very moment. Looks like nothing on telly but the evening news. Boring. Think will shower and then try to ring Mark again.

_5:40 pm_.

Shower was excellent, feeling much refreshed. Still no answer at Mark's. V. unusual as is Monday night. He never goes out alone on Monday night.

Hmmm. Have just noticed strange red light blinking on hotel phone. Will now call front desk to see what message is.

_5:44 pm._

Holy Christ alive. Mark is in the lobby. _Mark is in the lobby!_

………

Jim thinks Pam is truly adorable when she's buzzed on beer. They're only at Poor Richard's and dinner has been bar food—chicken wings, potato skins and cheap draft brew—but Jim wouldn't trade it for the fanciest of French restaurants with any other woman on earth.

Through her giggles, she confesses she has been a little jealous also, of Bridget. "She's so cute, and that accent, God, _so_ exotic." As she says it, she rolls her eyes with a little smile. If he didn't already love Pam, that would have been the clincher. He snorts a laugh, beer dangerously close to coming out of his nose.

"A British accent is not what I'd call 'exotic'." He's suddenly fearless, and reaches for her hand across the table. "Besides, 'exotic' isn't everything."

She doesn't pull her hand away, not for the entire rest of the evening. It's a baby step, but he's on top of the world, and he doesn't need any more ale to sustain his buzz.

He doesn't think she should drive home, not flying high on the better part of a glass of beer like she is, so he tells her he's giving her a ride to her apartment. She agrees, looping her pinky finger through his own. He can't get the goofy smile off of his face, not then, and certainly not when she leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

"Will you pick me up for work?" she asks. "Since my car's still in the parking lot there."

"People will talk."

"People already talk," she informs him in a surprisingly sober tone of voice.

He agrees, to the ride (as if he could refuse) and with her statement. He's still smiling. "You okay?" he asks, nodding his head towards her front door.

"Yeah." Her grin is nearly as wide as his own. "I'm great. I'll see you in the morning."

She steps out of his car and unsteadily heads up to her apartment, turning back to bestow one last smile upon him.

He thinks his buddy Mark will understand why he's late with the case.

………

**Tuesday.**

_Weight: do not care. Alcohol units/cigarettes/calories: 0 (is v. early yet)._

_12:34 am._

Went down to the straight-out-of-the-1970s lobby, with its avocado green and ochre yellow décor. Standing there next to one of the boxy rust-orange sofas was Mark Darcy—and he looked _really_ annoyed.

"You are a hard woman to track down," he said coolly as he pulled me aside. "Can we go to your room to talk?"

"What on earth are you doing _here_?" I asked, still not believing my eyes.

He kept looking at me in that way he has. V. sexy, truth be told; forgot for moment was supposed to be irritated too. "I wanted to continue our conversation from before you left, and make sure you were okay."

I felt my mouth hanging open stupidly. "So you found out where I was and _followed_ me?" If was anyone else, like, say, weirdo at paper company, would have been terrifyingly creepy stalker-type behaviour.

"Bridget, why do you think I didn't want you to go?"

"I thought you made it pretty clear," I said hoity-toitily.

"You didn't answer my question."

"You don't want me to be a career woman," I blurted, then elaborated, "To have a career."

He raised an eyebrow.

"And maybe you think I shouldn't bother because I'm rubbish at it anyway," I added, faltering a bit. Suddenly felt incredibly foolish. Realised maybe had blown things out of proportion in own head due to stung pride, perhaps at unwanted cost of losing nicest boyfriend ever had. But surely he would not have traveled over an ocean just to chuck me!

However he still said nothing.

Getting impatient at talking to statue instead of boyfriend, I asked, "Why then? Why on earth didn't you want me coming here?"

He didn't speak right away, and when he did, he enumerated in a very lawyerly fashion: "In the last year, you have managed to be suspected of harbouring body parts and of smuggling heroin out of Thailand, and subsequently had your life threatened with a personally engraved bullet."

I scoffed. "That was only Gary the builder."

"But we didn't know that at first, and I'll never forget the terror that night—" He stopped to clear his throat—that was the night I scared the bloody hell out of him in his dark house before we bared our souls about our true feelings, then shagged all night long. (Still not sure which of the two caused him to clear throat.) "My point is that you seem to attract trouble, and—" He glanced down, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. "Well. I can't help but feel a little—protective of you."

"A _little_? You just flew all the way to America to make sure I wasn't getting into trouble! That's more than just a little!" Was torn between deeply touched and somewhat indignant.

Must have been obvious on my face because he said, "I guess I did overreact to your not giving me your contact info. I apologise."

Had forgotten that little detail.

"So where does that leave me? Confined to house arrest?"

"Of course not," he snapped.

We just looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke again, his voice considerably gentler.

"I was in danger of losing you once to a very long prison sentence on the other side of the world—and again as the potential target of an assassin. So forgive me if I'd rather you stay close to home."

At the time of course didn't much fancy the thought of ten years in Thai prison with only photo of Mark Darcy and "If" poem to get me through. Bullet Man scenario was not exactly highlight of life, either. It wasn't as if was life's mission to get into trouble so that Mark Darcy would come to my rescue as he seemed to insinuate, but even still—'deeply touched' was winning out over 'somewhat indignant', because while he may be overly protective at times… at least I know he does it because he loves me.

"And you couldn't just say this over the phone, or when I got back?" I asked, my own voice definitely softer.

He was thoughtful for a moment before he said, "This wasn't really something I thought could wait… never mind that I did not have a number where I could reach you."

More silence and meaningful looks.

"Sorry," I muttered at last. "For everything."

He sighed exasperatedly. Then to my great relief, he smiled and reached forward to hug me. "You should be," he teased softly into my hair by way of apology back to me. I realised we had attracted a little audience of over-fifties. He clearly noticed too, for he added, "Now can we please go to your room? I'm knackered."

On the way up in the lift, he told me got the name of the company and the city from Patchouli, and decided to come and find me. He managed to track down the phone number but flew out of London too early to call before he left. He was halfway over the Atlantic before he was allowed to call from the plane… and I wasn't there. Called again when he landed… I wasn't available. My bloody luck.

When we got back to the room—mmm. Apparently he was not _that_ knackered.

_4-bloody-something am._

Have just had phone call from Patchouli, startling self and Mark Darcy out of minds. Item wrapped, no need to continue in Scranton or go on to Canada. At least not totally dropped. And can now sleep in.

………

"No visitor today?" asks Dwight suspiciously.

"I guess she got all the recon she needed," quips Jim, not looking up from his computer. He's too busy reading a message from Pam for the thirty-second time.

_To: J. Halpert_  
_From: P. Beesly_  
_Subject:)_  
_Poor Richard's was fun. My choice tonight?_

He glances up to catch Pam's eyes on him, a furtive smile on her face. He can't help but smile in return, and nods very slightly. Her smile broadens.

He hears the main door open and after a moment sees Bridget walking up to Pam's desk, her boyfriend in tow. They both have the sort of smug, happy look on their faces that tell him that whatever disagreement they'd had has been worked through, and it's late enough in the morning to tell him everything he needs to know about how it might have been worked through.

"Hey," says Jim. "We still on?" At the boyfriend's confused look, he adds, "…for my interview?"

"Sorry, your fifteen minutes of fame in Britain are not to be," she says wistfully. "I should have called sooner, but I overslept. Anyway. My part in the story's done. I just wanted to come by on our way out of town to say goodbye and thanks."

Jim sees Dwight's eyes moving rapidly from side to side, like he's thinking really hard about something or analyzing what she's saying to find some deeper meaning. Jim feels the nascent stirrings of a prank forming, but is beaten to the punch when Bridget adds in a very serious, low tone, bending over Dwight's shoulder and winking at Jim, "See you around, SithLordDKS."

Dwight goes absolutely ashen and turns to look at Bridget in shock, speechless as she waves and they depart. Jim holds back the laughter burbling at the back of his throat.

………

_11:25 am._

Just about to leave for lunch then airport to go back to UK. Mark has rented car and we are driving selves to Philadelphia. Seems v. sad to have flown all this way only to see Scranton via Philadelphia—not New York City, not L.A., not Seattle. (Though do realise one cannot make a weekend visiting all three, as Shazzer seems to think.)

Priceless look on office weirdo's face when I said goodbye using online handle. Could not resist—he should be more careful about what he has up on his screen for anyone who passes by to see.

_1:45 pm._

V. strange. Have been on road forever now and have not seen one road sign for Philadelphia. Have just seen exit for Bangor, though. Having odd university-related flashback.

_2:15 pm._

Oh my God. Have just seen road sign for _New York City_!

_2:20 pm._

Mark has booked us out of JFK. On Thursday! _Thursday!_

_Love_ the lovely Mark Darcy.

_The end._


End file.
